The Warhol Incident (9 page)

After leaving Mark’s office, it was about time I checked in at my own. I was leasing a small office space at a strip mall. It was designed for meeting clients and appearing to be a competent and established investigator. So far, I met with exactly one client in my office, and that was when Martin brought the retainer contract for me to sign. Other than that, it was basically just a drain on my limited income. Picking up the mail, I unlocked the door. The stack of letters were mostly addressed to “current resident”, until I came across a delivery notice. The slip advised a package was not delivered this morning, and another delivery attempt would be made later today. I’d just have to stick around until the courier graced me with his presence.

Ta
king off my shoulder holster and placing my gun in the now open top drawer of my desk, I opened the bottom drawer and propped my injured leg up. Leaning back in the chair, I stared out the door, waiting. People were walking about, to and from the other shops. At least my lack of clients wasn’t because of a zombie apocalypse.

After a few minutes of waiting
, I figured I might as well get some work done. Turning on the computer, I perused the new information Mark provided. I was checking into Jean-Pierre’s background and running checks on any and everyone he had been in contact with. Interpol provided the OIO with a list of Jean-Pierre’s CI’s, the ones they knew about anyway, as well as his other black market contacts.

Ever
y single person had a rap sheet, which didn’t surprise me. I just didn’t know if he had been in contact with any of them or if they would have turned against him for the right price. Rubbing my eyes, I began a new search through the police databases for anyone involved in illegal gambling. I wanted a clear picture of what the gambling and racketeering world looked like in Paris and if it was strictly tied to organized crime. Gambling existed on so many different levels that whoever Jean-Pierre owed could have been some small time bookie, looking to make a big impression, or someone running some large-scale crime syndicate.

Looking for bomb specifications in the updated file was futile since
none were provided. The cause of the explosion was still under investigation, as was the DNA results for the victim. The only positive identification was the VIN number of Jean-Pierre’s car.

I turned off the computer and pulled out a pad of paper.
It was time to try this the old-fashioned way. Here were the few facts I had: Jean-Pierre was murdered, Ski Mask and his goon threatened me and knew of my previous injury, the painting was a fake, Marset had a fake Manet and quite a bit of money in his possession, and the SUV and its two occupants were assisting Marset. I added Jean-Pierre’s gambling debts to my list with a question mark. Was Marset ever located, and did the painting go up for auction in Luxembourg as Jean-Pierre suspected?

I stared
out the door, unseeing, as I slowly ran through the few contacts I had in the underground art world. Unfortunately, every name I came up with had been arrested or worse. Maybe Clare or another Sterling employee knew who Jean-Pierre’s contact was. Although, who could be trusted? At least one person on the team had to be involved in this. No one else would have known enough about me to send Ski Mask to deliver a message.

The bell abov
e my door dinged, and I jumped despite the fact I was staring at the door. It was the courier, walking toward my desk. Plastering a pleasant smile on my face, I signed the sheet and accepted delivery of my parcel. After he left, I carefully examined the exterior of the box. It had French stamps and international, overnight airmail stickers all over it. There was no return address. I really needed to invest in a bomb sniffing dog, the paranoid part of my brain thought as I pulled out a letter opener and sliced through the tape. Slowly peeling back the brown paper to reveal a white cardboard mailing box, I tried not to think what my remains would look like after being flash-burned by a letter bomb.

Inside the box was
a VHS tape. It was unlabeled, and there was nothing else inside. It was a good thing I was one of the few people left with outdated equipment. I rummaged through the small storage closet, looking for the TV and VCR combo. This was probably why most people considered me a packrat. I pulled the TV out and set it on top of my desk, finding an extension cord and inserting the tape into the player. Hitting play, I waited.

The image was gra
iny, and the tape was low quality. The tracking lines scrolled up and down the screen. The scene looked vaguely familiar, and I watched Jean-Pierre’s spiked blond hair emerge from the bottom right hand corner of the screen. He walked over to a dark colored car and unlocked the door. The screen went bright white, followed by a few moments of nothing but static and fuzz, and then I saw the remnants of the still burning vehicle. I felt myself gasp as I sharply took in a breath. Why would anyone send me this? The tape played on for a few moments, but there was nothing else on it. Hitting stop, I sat down in my desk chair. My hands were trembling as I fumbled with the remote, shutting off the blue glow from the television

I pulled out a pair of gloves and ejected the tape, placed it back in the box, and grabbed my belongings.
I headed straight to Mark’s office. He looked up as I entered, completely confused.

“What’s wrong?”
He reached for the box, but I pulled it out of his reach before he could touch it.

“Might be evidence.
I already touched the whole damn thing but figured I might as well be retroactive with the gloves.” I was in a bitch of a mood. Watching a friend get murdered tended to have that effect. “In case you were wondering, someone was kind enough to let me watch Jean-Pierre’s last few seconds. Do you think they were being helpful or just sending another message?” I placed the box on Mark’s desk and pulled out the failed delivery notice from my purse and handed it to him. 

“Are y
ou okay?” He motioned to some agents in the hallway to come and properly claim the box.

“I’m fucking wonderful.”
The agents came in and removed the box and packaging from Mark’s desk. He nodded to them as they walked out.

“Are y
ou sure you don’t want to let this one go?” I stared him down like he was a speeding train, and we were in the midst of a game of chicken.

“Funny, the more forcefully that point is made
, the less likely I am to listen.” There was another trip to Paris in my future.

*              *              *

I was at the shooting range, blowing off steam. My nine millimeter was out, and I had just gone through two magazines, firing in the classic two-handed stance most law enforcement agencies insisted on. I pressed the button, and my paper target moved toward me. The center of the paper was completely decimated. Just the way I liked it. I replaced the target with another and was reloading my gun when my phone buzzed.

“If it isn’t my favorite detective,” I an
swered, putting the safety on.

“What an honor,” O’Connell teased.
“How many other detectives do you even know?”

“Do
n’t belittle my compliment. I’m assuming your call actually has a point.” There was gunfire in the background as a few other people shot at their targets.

“Is th
is a bad time?”

“I’m at the range.”

“It must have been a slow week for the tech guys because they got a match on some blood from the back of your shirt.” My attempt to break my captor’s nose hadn’t completely missed after all. “Name’s Aaron Ramirez, local guy, bit of a thug, used to do odd jobs for the Sanchez gang until they got disbanded. He has quite a few assaults and drug offenses, nice assortment of felonies and misdemeanors. We have a BOLO out on him now.”

“Uh-huh.
” Why would a French national hire a local guy to assist? Maybe Ski Mask wasn’t really French but managed to pull off a convincing accent to a non-native speaker.

“Are y
ou doing okay?” O’Connell interrupted my thoughts.

“Peachy.
” I informed him of the delivery this morning and Jean-Pierre’s murder.

“Shit, Parker.
You don’t half-ass anything, do you?”

“Apparently not.
Let me know when you collar the guy.”

Disconnecting
, I flipped the safety off and fired one-handed in a sniper stance until the magazine clicked empty. All head shots. At least my aim was improving. I repeated the process with my left hand, aiming this time for center mass, making about seventy percent of the shots in the ten ring. It would do in a pinch. Cleaning up my spent bullet casings, I went back to my car and drove home.

O
nce again, I carefully entered my apartment and made sure everything was as I left it. I was thinking about the VHS tape. An attempt had been made to deliver it to my office early this morning, but I wasn’t there. It didn’t matter. I already knew Jean-Pierre was dead, and watching him die had little impact on that conclusion. But something was gnawing at my subconscious, and I just couldn’t put my finger on it.

T
he databases provided detailed arrest information on Ramirez, but there was little to be gained that O’Connell didn’t already tell me. I cross-referenced Ramirez with the employee list from Evans-Sterling. There was no overlap or connection to be found. Not to mention, Ramirez didn’t even possess a passport. He must have been hired for his sparkling personality and ability to grab women who were probably half a foot shorter and a hundred pounds lighter than he was.

A
thought crossed my mind, and I began looking into the Sanchez gang to see if they had any connections to black market art smuggling. There must be some kind of connection between Ramirez and Paris. Talk about a French connection, my mind filled in the pathetic joke. After a couple of hours of searching, the pieces connected. A few members of the Sanchez gang had been arrested for running an illegal gambling ring. The items recovered in the raid included an Andy Warhol print with an estimated value of $60,000. Gambling and art, my two favorite things at the moment.

T
racking the history of the Warhol backward, I was scrolling through ownership and bills of sale when my phone rang, destroying the mental trail I was so carefully following.

“What?” I asked
, annoyed.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” Martin respond
ed.

“I am
.” I blinked my eyes a few times. The hours of staring at the computer screen made it difficult to focus on things at a distance. Maybe I could use a break. It was almost seven. “I need to get back to work.”

“Okay.”

“Just remember to st
ay clear of me for a while.” I wasn’t going to tell him about the videotape.

“Sure.
Good night, Alex.”

I went back to clicking away at the keyboard, but my concentrat
ion was shattered. Looking for something to eat, I rummaged around in the kitchen. I ate dinner and stared out the window of my apartment, wondering why everything had to be so complicated. I thought about Jean-Pierre and Clare. I was firmly planted in the anger stage of grief. To top it off, I was even more pissed someone had the audacity to send such a heinous tape. The anger was just the motivation I needed to get back on track.

I went
to the computer and traced the Warhol to its brief ownership two years ago when it was in the possession of a Mr. Wilkes, who insured the painting with Evans-Sterling.

“Hot damn,” I said
aloud, leaning back in my chair and trying to digest the full implications of my discovery.

I
failed to consider the significance of the painting’s owner. Mr. Stanley Wilkes was simply a name attached to a file provided by the helpful bastards at Evans-Sterling. It was mixed in with their welcome package of do’s and don’t’s on procuring and transporting valuable art, making it even more difficult to ascertain any useful information on the man. The law enforcement databases found nothing on Wilkes. He didn’t exist, or he didn’t have a criminal record. A general people search came up with quite a few Stanley Wilkes, but none matched the address or contact information Evans-Sterling provided. After an internet search, I still had nothing. Did Evans-Sterling screen their clients at all?

It was almost
ten p.m., so calling the office building now would be a fruitless endeavor. I shut down my computer and decided to get some sleep. The jetlag, my welcome home party, and Clare’s late night call all fucked up my Circadian rhythms even more so than usual.

Leaving a couple of
lights on in my apartment, I changed the bandage on my leg. Amazingly, it was healing, thanks to Martin’s little trick. I assessed my face in the mirror. It was severely bruised but no longer swollen. As long as I didn’t touch it, things were good.

I slept until
six a.m. Maybe I was turning into a morning person, I thought ironically as I got dressed in workout gear and did a few hundred crunches, some push-ups, and finished with a couple basic combinations of punches and blocks, avoiding anything that might put undue stress on my thigh since it didn’t need to start bleeding again. I had a lot of pent-up energy from all the hostility I was harboring toward Jean-Pierre’s murderer. After showering and dressing, I took a seat at the computer and double-checked that I didn’t miss finding the proper Stanley Wilkes.

By nine o’clock
, I was out the door and heading for the Evans-Sterling building. Mr. Evans would be absolutely delighted to see me again. This time, the secretary went straight to the intercom and informed him I was in the lobby. Once I entered his office, my tirade began.

“Who’s Mr. Wilkes?” I asked
before taking a seat.

“Ms. Parker
, our client confidentiality is very important.”

“Cut the bullsh
it. Wilkes doesn’t exist. So whose painting did I bring back?”

Evans tried to
be intimidating with his stare, which didn’t work well since his face reminded me of a pug. Sure, he could probably snort loudly and maybe let out a bark every now and again, but his bite wasn’t dangerous. I waited him out.

“This
is a very well-endowed, high profile client. Wilkes is the name we have selected in order to ensure the utmost level of privacy.”

“Despite your penis-envy for the guy,” I was being flippant, “he often has issues in the procurement of his paintings, doesn’t he?”
I narrowed my eyes at Evans. If I gave him my death glare, he would keel over.

“I don’t know what you mean.
” He was playing dumb, but he fidgeted with the pen on his desk. He must make a lousy poker player. “Now if you wouldn’t mind leaving, or I can have you escorted from the building.”

I stood up
and walked slowly toward the door. “It’s a real shame about that Warhol getting caught in the police raid a couple years back.” I opened his office door. “It would be a disgrace if the press got wind of how Evans-Sterling was failing to protect client assets from being used in some illegal form or fashion.” I would burn the whole place to the ground in order to get what I wanted.

“You wo
uldn’t dare,” Evans barked. “You signed a confidentiality agreement. We’d own your ass.”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure my contract on
ly pertains to the painting I was hired to return, and quite frankly, I don’t remember there being a strict confidentiality clause anywhere. If you want to call the legal department and have them explain it to you, I can wait.” He turned blood red but realized he wasn’t going to win this.

“Sit down,” he commanded.
Victorious, I went back to the chair and took a seat. “If I tell you what you want to know, it can’t leave this room.” I shrugged. “Stanley Wilkes is the codename we use for suspect pieces a high-end brokerage firm has hired us to procure.”

“Suspect?”
             

“The
company has its own investments and eccentric clientele. Every once in a while, one of their buyers locates a piece they must have, but sometimes, the art they acquire may or may not be, shall we say, legitimate. All of the verified pieces are later sold or surrendered to institutions and private dealers. However, since these pieces aren’t always reliable, we’re paid to handle the procurement, authentication, and delivery.”

“You’re involved in the s
ale of illegally obtained works and fraudulent art?”

“Of course not.
” Evans was genuinely offended. “Nothing black market, but sometimes, things are a bit gray.” If I were still an OIO agent, I’d have him in cuffs right now. “We tend to hire former federal agents, like yourself, in order to ensure laws are not broken.” In other words, so they could cover their asses.

“H
ow did the brokerage firm manage to acquire this particular painting?”

“I don’t know,” he
sounded sincere. I couldn’t be positive he wasn’t lying, but my gut instinct said he was on the level about this.

“How did the Warhol end up in a raid?”
It didn’t matter, but my interest was piqued.

“It belonged to some gang.
One of the lackeys transferred ownership for a decent price. We were handling the delivery.” Evans was covering by making the sale sound legitimate. “Unfortunately, not all of his cohorts agreed on the price. Things got a little messy. It wasn’t our brightest moment.” Nodding, I walked out of the office. I had a lot to think about.

*              *              *

I went to Mark’s office, positive he must be sick and tired of seeing me by now. When I knocked on his door, he looked up wearily.

“Please don’t give me anything else,” he begged
. “I have enough casework of my own without doing you or Interpol any favors.”

“Maybe I just came
to see you. It’s been almost twenty-four hours, and I don’t think I can make it a full day without getting to see your smiling face.” Mark turned to me expectantly. “Fine. Is there an ongoing investigation into Evans-Sterling?”

He
adopted a shifty-eyed look. “What did you hear?”

“Not a thing.
I just thought if there wasn’t one in the works, there should be.”

He
sighed, exasperated, and rubbed his forehead. “What did I just say about giving me more work to do?”

“You were looking for an excuse to score some overtime,” I sug
gested, smiling pleasantly. After telling Mark everything I uncovered from Evans, he didn’t seem at all surprised. Evidently, things like this were common occurrences. It was nothing earth shattering or worth starting a new file or investigation on, at least not at the present.

“While I have
you here, you might as well know, our guys checked the box, the tape, and the content. No way to identify the sender. However, the VHS tape appears to have been cut. Unfortunately, there’s no way to determine what was removed, but I thought you’d like to know.” I was about to speak, but Mark cut me off. “Oh, and yes, I did pass it on to our friends at Interpol.”

*              *              *

O’Connell called during my drive home. Ramirez was brought in late last night. They were still holding him. Making an illegal u-turn, I headed for the precinct.

“That was quick,” O’Connell commented as I took a seat in the vacant chair across from his desk.

“Traffic was light.
” I neglected to mention the one or two minor traffic violations I committed on my way here. “You do realize there is no way I can legitimately identify him.” O’Connell’s nod was barely perceptible.

“That d
oesn’t mean we can’t suggest he cooperate on his own volition.” He winked. “Are you willing to get back in the ring, slugger?”

If I went
along with this ruse, there was a very good chance I’d have a few more unexpected visitors knocking on my door or worse. Although, if I didn’t, my opportunity to identify Ski Mask would be nonexistent. “Okay.”

I followed O’Connell into one of the interrogation rooms and remained standing near the door as he
went around the table and sat in front of Aaron Ramirez. Ramirez was staring at the table. As far as I could tell, he didn’t notice me.

“Mr. Ramirez,” O’Connell spoke slowly, “are you sure you want to stick with your story that you have no idea why you’re here?”

“That’s right.
” Ramirez rocked ever so slightly back and forth in his chair. He was cuffed to the bar in the table. “This is jus’ some kind of racial profilin’ shit. You see me out and think he mus’ be guilty of somethin’.”

“Hmm.
” O’Connell glanced at me. I was leaning against the wall, making sure it was sturdy. My arms were crossed over my chest. “So you don’t want to tell me who hired you for the assault on Sunday afternoon?”

“I don’t know no
thin’ ‘bout that.” Ramirez was now staring at his nails.

“Funny,”
I spoke up, “I know you’re lying.” I was very matter-of-fact, and Ramirez turned his head in my direction, watching me carefully. There was maybe a flicker of recognition, but this thug was a pro. He wasn’t even dazed by my presence.

“Do you realize, Mr. Ramirez, assaulting a federal agent is a felony?”
O’Connell might have left out the word former, but I wasn’t about to correct him. An assault was an assault.

“Who’s a federal agent?”
Ramirez seemed curious but not flustered or nervous. I wasn’t sure we’d get him to roll. “She a federal agent?” I gave him a big fake smile.

“So you see,” O’Connell got his attention, “it’d be a shame if something horrible w
ere to happen to you in lock-up before you get transferred out of here. You know how things work when you attack a cop.” O’Connell leaned back in the chair; we had all the time in the world.

“What’d you want?” Ramirez asked after a few minute
s of complete silence. O’Connell glanced at me again. This was all for show. I cocked an eyebrow up and shrugged my shoulders.

“A name w
ould be nice.” I stood up straight, away from the wall, and sauntered toward the table, staring Ramirez down. My expression conveyed one simple truth; I’m not intimidated by a son-of-a-bitch like you. “Give us the suit with the accent, and I’ll make sure you get out of here this afternoon.” Ramirez pulled back on his cuffs, making them clang menacingly while he eyed me. Finally, he shifted his gaze to O’Connell.

“This on the level?” he asked.

“I’ll make the paperwork disappear myself,” O’Connell promised. 

“He don’t got a name,” Ramirez responded.

“Fine, thro
w the son-of-a-bitch in lock-up.” I turned and headed for the door. “I’m done.”

“Sorry,
pal,” O’Connell said. The chair squeaked against the floor as he got up. The door was open, and I was one step into the hallway when Ramirez spoke again.

“
Wait, what if I roll on who paid me?” I turned around slowly and glanced at O’Connell. It was his call what he wanted to do.

“I guess that would suffice.
” He walked back to Ramirez, and I shut the door and resumed my leaning.

“Guy named Clyde Van Buren
wired the money.”

I nodded
once to O’Connell and left the interrogation room. If I were in there for another moment, I would want to even the score. Back in the bullpen, I sat down in O’Connell’s chair, waiting for him to finish with Ramirez. He was giving him the stay away or else speech. Finally, O’Connell met me at his desk.

“Was that helpful?” he asked
, staring at his chair forlornly. Surrendering his chair, I took a seat next to his desk.

“Just confirmation it’s an inside job.”
Tilting my head up, I stared at the ceiling, asking, “do you think he’ll tattle to his buddies?”

“No.
He’s getting out of town and taking a nice long vacation. At least he will if he knows what’s good for him.” O’Connell could be intimidating when he wanted to be.

“Looks like I mig
ht be taking a trip, too. Thanks, I owe you one.”

“We’ll call it even for everything you gave me last time,”
he countered. “Fair enough?”

“Sure.”
I left the precinct and headed home. All the lights were staying on tonight.